The other morning The Little One comes downstairs in tears and yelling, "BAD BAD ALMOST FERAL CAT!"
Her fish, Henry, was floating at the bottom of the bowl. Somehow The Almost Feral Cat was responsible.
Unknown to The Little One, this was the fifth in a long line of Henrys. I hate to admit it, but I was relieved that I wouldn't have to make any more clandestine trips to the pet store and have any more secret burials in the toilet.
"Well," I began, "Henry was a good fish, and had a good life..."
Between sobs she gasped out, "That's NOT helping."
She wanted to stay home from school, but I explained that the passing of the beta did not count as a death in the family. So I took her to school and walked her into class.
The World's Best Third Grade Teacher took one look at her and knew something was up. She came over and gave The Little One a hug and said how sorry she was.
She was still upset after school, so her dad took her to the pet store.
Now she wants a bearded lizard.
Over my and Henry's dead body.